Thom came for the afternoon with his diary under his arm. We were meant to be fishing off the coast but as I made him lemonade in the kitchen we banged heads. He seemed to have grown taller, more angular, all sharp elbows and quick gestures and so when, accidentally, we banged heads next to the fridge it left me, unaccountably, in an awful mood, as if we were mirroring the others' frustration and even a clash of heads couldn't return us to ourselves. So I was happy to drop the fishing and doze in the garden while he furiously scribbled in the diary. Yet, while half asleep I was also aware that Thom wanted a reaction. His diary writing had become almost performative. He would lurch forwards, backwards, then wave his arms around as if were conducting an orchestra rather than writing his most inner thoughts. Then suddenly he coughed loudly and went indoors. His diary was left open on the table. I wondered if he was now watching me from a window so I pretended to fall into a deep sleep. Clearly, there was something he wanted to tell me, but I would have to read his diary to know it, and all the while he would be watching me from an upstairs window, possibly filming it. What had happened to my son? I was toying with a despair for him while balancing it with admiration for his cunning when, suddenly, he burst out the back door with a pair of shoes in his hands. Now, shoes matter to us. When I lived in the family home Thom and I used to polish our shoes every sunday night. It was a quiet, soulful ritual and one I tried to maintain with him since the divorce. He looked almost distraught.

What happened to your shoes?

I have a pregnant client, Thom. She threw up over them.

He nodded, weighing this information slowly. For a moment it seemed as if his recent intensity had given him a clear insight into the truth or falsity of everything I said. In fact, the word client had thrown him and he was actually trying to remember what job I do. We looked at the shoes, as if they held the truth. I hadn't noticed, but he was also carrying the shoe polish kit. I always chose a light tan for the brogues. You'll need a darker hue for that, he said.

Thom? You're right.

And so, he kneeled down and we set to. Me, polishing my shoes for the morning and him, for the new school term, a few weeks away.